


A Pound of Flesh

by TheBobblehat



Category: Captain America, Marvel
Genre: M/M, Skinny Steve, feelings and prostitution, good ol' boys, lots of 1930's lingo, maybe sex later? probably, possible heart wrenching sadness, pre-serum steve, soft boys in love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-28
Updated: 2016-08-05
Packaged: 2018-06-04 15:14:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6663778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBobblehat/pseuds/TheBobblehat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Rogers family has never had great luck. The late Mr. Rogers left almost nothing to his wife and son before dying with a bottle in his hand. Little Stevie grew up for 17 years with one illness after another. Now, his mother Sarah has been bed-bound with pneumonia, and what little money they did have has all but dried up. Steve had some luck after leaving high school with odd jobs here and there, but a Depression Era New York City had little to offer for a young man too weak to lift a box. And so, he decides to sell the one thing he had left of value: his body.</p><p>Little does he know the world he's about to step into.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Little history about this fic - it was originally an rp on Omegle, but my internet decided to crap out on me for the remainder of the night. I spent days searching the internet to find this other person, but no such luck. The prompt and what little we did do with it was so great, and I had so much planned, that I've decided I can't let it die. So if you're out there and you're reading this, get in contact with me, and I hope you don't mind!
> 
> 1930's slang reference, for anyone who might get confused on some hip lingo: http://www.paper-dragon.com/1939/slang.html

The docks were cold that night. A marine layer had just rolled in, making the world thick with mist. It was nearing one in the morning, making for an eerie silence along the water front. Ships bobbed in the harbor, silent as sleeping giants. In the distance, dogs barked, a faint siren passed by, but no real life found its way to the docks. At least, no real life without suspicion. Shadowed figures, faces kept out of the orange haze of streetlight, turned up their collars and kept their eyes forward. Some swayed drunkenly to the main road, while others seemed to still be looking for the beginning of their night. There was one figure, however, who did not fit the mold of suspect or drunkard. He walked cautiously, his eyes scanning the dock before him.

Steve Rogers was a scrawny kid; he always had been. His knees were knobby and often scraped beneath his dirty jeans. Ink and lead stained the tips of his fingers. His clothes were cheap, but well kept and ironed. As the cold wind tickled the shaved hairs of his neck, Steve wrapped his itchy wool coat tighter around his body. He could feel the hole in the right pocket getting bigger. He'd been meaning to sew it soon...

Steve looked around, having made it a quarter down the water front. A few men glanced his way, but none stopped him. His mouth was dry, and he did his best to wet it. His quick pulse couldn't have been good for his heart, but he couldn't afford not to be there. _This is for Ma_ , he repeated in his head. _This is for her._ It was that mantra that kept him walking.

For a while, he was left alone. Nothing more than a handful so much as turned their heads. And then, from the orange haze of the streetlight, a figure walked forward. He was tall and broad shouldered, with a wide brimmed hat and long, expensive coat. Most of his face was shadowed, except for the cherry of a cigarette hanging from his mouth. He stopped just a few yards away from Steve, smoking slowly.

"You alone, kid?" He sounded old. Mid thirties, perhaps older.

Steve's heart jumped, but he settled himself quickly. "Yessir," he responded, digging his hands deeper into his pockets. "Alone as could be." He hesitated. "Though... not really a kid, if you don't mind..."

The stranger didn't answer. Instead, he continued to smoke. A few details flashed through the darkness. He wore a respectable mustache, complete with well trimmed, salt-and-pepper hair. Whoever he was, he had one hell of a barber. Through the lapels of his coat, a fancy tie complete with golden pin was just visible enough to send the right message: he was rich. Cracking his neck, he stepped further into the light. His eyes were still hidden, but no doubt he was a man at least thirty years Steve's senior.

"Come closer. Lemme take a look at you, kid."

Steve was jittery. For a moment, he felt frozen where he stood, as though his feet were wrapped up in cement. He eyed their surroundings, but found no one watching. Heart now pounding in his ears, he approached. Now, they stood under the same street lamp, and Steve gingerly held open his coat. "Like what you see, mister?"

The man considered the offer, and then tossed his cigarette aside. "This way." Without waiting for permission, he grabbed Steve's skinny arm - rather roughly in fact - and lead him away from the light of the docks. Steve fumbled in his footing, half heartedly trying to jerk from his grasp. The man paid him no mind. Their footsteps echoed against the wet wood, making it feel as they were alone in the world. Reaching an unlit alley between a couple of stock houses, Steve was shoved through a hole in the wooden fence and into the darkness. Sharp blades of light broke against the man, who remained just as daunting as he had in full view of the lamp. He pressed Steve's back against the cold, hard brick and stood before him. Reaching down, he began undoing his belt.

"You ever suck a man? On your knees. Now."

Steve's breath was coming in wheezes now, his lungs tightening with anxiety. His legs quaked, and his hands shook uncontrollably. "Suck...?" His innocent eyes shifted to the man's face, but soon, Steve was forced to his knees by the stranger's hand. He hit the ground hard, sending shocks up his bones. Now colder than ever, he looked up. Soon, the man's pants were open, and his boxers just about to follow suit, when a rumble caught their attention. Before either knew it, a blinding headlight washed over them as a motorcycle roared up close. The stranger squinted and held a hand up to his eyes, the light having revealed a face of wrinkles and silver hair.

"Why you goddamned, no account, fornicating son of a bitch!"

The voice was young, it was sharp, and it was headed straight for them. From the bright headlight, a silhouetted figure lurched forward and socked the man flat in the jaw. That once scary stranger went down like a stack of dominoes. The attacker, now in full light, held the man by the front of his coat, shaking him vigorously. He was Steve's age, with a firmly square jaw and handsome features. His dark hair was slicked back, but had mostly come out in the fray. Gritting his teeth, he nearly strangled the man to death.

"Is THIS what you do when we're not looking?! Huh, old man!? I otta clobber you till your face paints the pavement!"

"N-now James-! B-be reasonable-!"

" _Reasonable!?_ You're lucky I don't knock out every one of your damned teeth!"

Steve watched the encounter, having fallen squarely on his butt as the young attacker - James - throttled the man like a rag doll. Steve was spinning, and for a while, paralyzed. This James was big, and looked strong. He looked like he could hurt somebody. That's when he saw James's fist raise, ready to strike.

In a flash, the fear was pushed aside, and Steve bolted to his feet. He flung both arms around James's arm, keeping it at bay. "Huh-?!" James rounded to Steve, who was now practically hanging off of his bicep. "Get off me you damn crumb!"

"Don't hurt him!" Steve demanded.

"Why?! You two puffs off to get hitched or something?! Hey, get off-!" The two struggled, and the older man was left on the ground as Steve managed to peel James from him. Furious, James rounded to Steve then, slamming him against the red brick of the building. "Mind your own business, or I'll make room to teach you a lesson, too!"

"He's not hurting anybody!" Steve argued. He yanked on James's wrists, but was kept firmly against the wall. "You think you're so tough... you bullies are all the same! Well I'll tell you something, I don't go down without a fight-!"

But James's anger melted quickly. Confusion in his eyes, he squinted. "'Bully'?" he repeated. "You think this low life is a victim here?" He pulled away and looked between the two. With a sneer, James glared at the man on the ground. "This greaseball has been bleeding my mom dry for the past year."

"James, _please_ , there's no need to involve-"

"Shut your yap, Seymour! I'll air your dirty laundry to the whole world if I feel like it!" He rounded back to Steve, brows knit. "He's a two-bit, two-timing hound dog. Now it looks like I'm finally able to prove it. Just hope I can convince her to divorce."

Steve was silent for a moment, eyes bouncing between the parties. As the adrenaline left, it was replaced by an overwhelming sense of shame. He stared at the quivering mess on the ground as the truth dawned on him. "Oh Jesus..." His hand went to his mouth, face falling. He'd been so desperate, so _stupid_ , that he nearly involved himself with a married man. His stomach churned and he turned away. His asthma had returned full force now, sending him into a humiliating coughing fit, which nearly sent him to his knees.

"H-hey... hey, easy there, short stuff..." An awkward hand came to rest on Steve's back. "You all right, buddy?"

When Steve's coughing subsided, he covered his face in horror. "I'm... I'm sorry... I'm so sorry, I didn't..."

James sighed. "You ain't the guy I'm blaming, pal." He turned then to Seymour. "If I were you, I'd find myself a nice hotel tonight. Though don't expect us to pick up the bill."

Seymour slowly rose to his feet, leaning against the wall. "James, your mother doesn't need to know. We-we could work something out. I could increase your allowance or-"

"Save it." James turned back to Steve, who managed to right himself by now. "Hey. Get on the bike."

Steve jumped and looked to James. "Wha-? Why?"

"Because you look like you could use a good bed and some hot food, kid. C'mon." Handing Steve his own helmet, he got on the motorcycle and slammed his heel into the kick stand. "That ain't a request."

Steve teetered on his answer before taking his seat and putting on the helmet. It was a size too big for him, and would have fallen off if he didn't tie the strap to his chin. "You don't have to, you know..."

James didn't answer. Instead, he backed out of the alley and rode off into the dark New York streets, leaving Seymour behind.

 

◆ ◇ ◆ ◇ ◆ ◇ ◆

 

They arrived at James's house after almost an hour of driving. They were well beyond the Hoovervilles and shanty towns of the city, and had traveled up state. The homes were nice there, with spacious yards and a car in every lot. In some cases, two. Steve was floored by the scenery change, whipping his head back and forth as they rode further into the row of town houses. Finally, James parked in front of a two story house. There was an old oak tree out back, with what looked like a tire swing hanging from a sturdy branch. The front had rows of perfectly kept flowers and bushes, and even a small bird bath tucked away in the corner.  
  
"This is... where you live...?" Steve got off the motorcycle, taking the helmet in his hands. "It's... it's so..." He paused before rounding sharply to James. "You really didn't have to bring me here." 

James shrugged. "I'm impulsive I guess." He stood as well, hands in his coat pockets. "Besides... I wanted to make sure that old goat didn't hurt you or nothin'."

Steve felt his ears grow hot and he shied away. "No, he didn't hurt me." There was an awkward silence between the pair of them.

"What's your name, kid?"

Steve was startled at the question. After such a rough night, it was surprisingly normal. He turned back to James, who was leaning leisurely against the bike seat, waiting for an answer. "I never got it back there."

"Steve Rogers," he said.

"Bucky Barnes." James - Bucky - held out his hand, and Steve shook it, albeit a bit sheepishly. "Let's head on in."

Taking his keys and his helmet, Bucky lead Steve in through the front of the house. It wasn't a mansion, but by Steve's standards, it might as well have been a palace. The front room was wide and spacious, with a high priced radio surrounded by a few comfortable couches and a bookshelf. A stairwell stacked its way to the top floor above them, and to their right sat a well furnished dining area, complete with china cabinets. Steve suddenly became aware of every move he made. One wrong step and he could break something worth more than he was.

"Come on up. But keep it down, yeah?" Bucky walked Steve up the steps and down a hallway of doors. They ended at the last door on the left. Opening it, Bucky revealed a small guest room. Well, small in comparison to the rest of the house. In actuality, it was the size of Steve's living room. They walked inside and shut the door behind them. Reaching up, Bucky flipped on the light, letting Steve look around. "We can talk in the morning. It's been a long night for everyone."

Steve sat on the edge of the bed, his eyes wide. "I don't get you." Bucky didn't respond, so Steve continued. "I mean... Look, I was a real genius, going out and doing all that, but... I mean... with everything you told me, you got more right to sock me in the jaw than to give me room and board." He gripped the edge of the bed. "Why're you helping me? Most fellas wouldn't even spit in my direction if they saw a guy like me."

Bucky rested against the wall, his arms folded. "A guy like you," he repeated. "And what's that, exactly?"

Steve's throat tightened, but he refused to shy his eyes away. "Look, it's not like I don't like girls. There are plenty of gals I like, see? In my old school, Betsy Middleton gave me the worst butterflies. They were so bad I could barely get a word out and-and then Daphne White from down the street gets me all twisted up sometimes and - "

"Woah woah woah, let's take it easy for a second." Bucky had a hint of a smile on his face. "You're saying to me you like 'em both."

Steve's cheeks burned, but he couldn't look away. "I'm saying I'm not... I mean I'm not... entirely..."

Bucky sighed, rubbing his eyes. "Listen, it doesn't make a difference to me. Really. What you like is what you like, and I got no problem with it." He frowned then, scowling off to the side. "I got an axe to grind about Seymour, that's all. He's been chiseling away at mom since they met, sucking her dry. I'll be surprised if she has any money left by the time this is over. And all the while, he's off trouncing around with a bunch of apple cheeked floozies-" His words ended abruptly, and he glanced Steve's way. Instantly, they both averted their gaze. Pushing off the wall, Bucky turned away and stepped out.

"I'm gonna hit the hay. You get some shut eye yourself. We'll talk more tomorrow." There was a pause. Bucky tilted his head just slightly, as if prepared to say something else. But instead, he stepped out into the hall and closed the door behind him.

 

◆ ◇ ◆ ◇ ◆ ◇ ◆

 

Steve woke up feeling the most comfortable he had been in ages. His mind, turning on slowly, detected the soft echo of birds, rather than the usual bustle of traffic and shouting voices. What's more, as Steve became conscious, he realized that he was not sleeping on his old, worn out spring mattress, but a nice, plump bed, cocooned in cotton sheets. Finally, his eyes cracked open and he sat up. For a split second, he stared at confusion at his surroundings. 

_Wait. I'm still here._ The memory of last night returned to him, and Steve clutched the blanket in his lap. Embarrassment ate away at him like acid as he slowly curled up into a ball. Caught on his knees with a married man... What kind of impression was that? The one condolence about the whole situation was the kindness of a man who, had he been any one else, would have taken the opportunity to beat Steve within an inch of his life. Yet there he was, comfortable and unharmed. Head in his hands, he sighed.

"Up already?"

Steve snapped up to find Bucky at his open door. He was dressed for the day, with a fine, buttoned down shirt and house slacks. His smile was kind. "How're you feeling?"

Steve stared at his hands. "Lousy," he answered honestly.

Bucky shrugged. "Eh. You didn't know. You must be starving though." He eyed Steve up and down. "I got half a mind to say you haven't had a good meal in all your life."

Steve pouted, but said nothing as he slid out of bed. He had slept with his clothes on, and now in the light of the morning next to Bucky, it was clear just how out of place he was. He probably couldn't afford Bucky's outfit if he worked every hour of his life. "I get by."

"Well mom's cooking some eggs now. Still haven't told her about Seymour yet but..." Bucky's face dropped. "The sooner the better, don't you think?"

Suddenly, the air grew tense between them. "Are... are you going to... I mean, look, I know I deserve it, but if you're going to tell your ma about me, can I leave first?"

Bucky blinked, a little surprised by the request. "Oh... I was hoping you could do some talking, yourself. She won't believe me otherwise."

Steve's eyes grew big, the panic in them evident. "You want me to tell her that I-? What I almost did-?" His breath began to come faster. "Oh no. No no no no... I can't, I-"

"Woah, easy there." Bucky put his hands squarely on Steve's shoulders, waiting until he calmed down. "I'm not telling her that you were... whatever you were up to. That's your business. You just have to tell her that you were there. You saw it. That's it."

"But what if he comes back? He could-"

"He won't do nothin'," Bucky said confidently. "Now come on. Let's get you some eggs and sit my mom down."

The pair of them headed downstairs. In the kitchen, a woman with curly black hair hummed around the stove. She turned as she heard them walk in, smiling kindly. "Oh good morning, James! Is this a friend of yours? I didn't hear him at the door." She was a woman in her early forties at best, with gentle features that could make anyone at ease.

Bucky approached his mother, kissing her cheek. "Morning. Mom, this is Steve Rogers. Stevie, this is my mother, Gertrude Barnes."

"Gertrude _Rodchester_ now, James. Honestly." She shifted her smile to Steve, as sweet as sugar itself. "Now. It's a pleasure to meet you, Steve Rogers."

"Pleasure's mine, ma'am." Politely, Steve stepped in, but didn't go much further. "This is a beautiful home."

"Oh thank you, dear. Please, come in, sit down." She gestured to the kitchen table. It was a pale ash wood, with a centerpiece of flowers to match the yellow wall paper of the kitchen. Nothing felt homier. He sat down, with Bucky taking the chair adjacent to him. "It's always nice when James brings his friends over. How'd you two meet?" She turned back to making breakfast.

Bucky glanced at Steve, motioning him to start the story. "Well uh... well, ma'am..." His tongue felt frozen in place, and he looked to Bucky for help.

"See, Steve and I here wanted to talk to you about something," Bucky interjected. "It's kind of important."

"Oh?" She turned with a skillet in hand, serving them both a plate full of perfect, sunny side up eggs. Steve could feel his stomach rumbling at the smell, but didn't start yet. Again, Bucky turned to Steve expectantly. Now, he had both sets of eyes on him, staring him down. Helplessly, he floundered, looking back and forth. He felt pressure building in his chest, his hands shaking beneath the table. Without knowing what else to do, he said:

"I'm your new maid."

He had no idea why he said it, or where it came from. He couldn't even comprehend the words until they left his mouth. Surprised at himself, he turned to Bucky, who had a look of disbelief on his face.

"Maid?" said Gertrude. "Well, I thought about hiring one, I suppose. With how many people need work these days... James, did you arrange this to surprise me?"

Stiff in his seat, Bucky took a moment before slowly rounding to his mother. "Y...yeah... It might... make your day easier..."

"Oh how wonderful!" Gertrude held her hands together. "I've been meaning to paint more, but I just haven't found the hours in the day. And you seem like a nice enough boy. Wait until I tell Seymour! Oh this is exciting, isn't it? When can you start?"

Steve shifted in his chair. "I can... I can start tomorrow if you want, ma'am."

"Splendid. I was going to the market tomorrow anyway." As she began to ramble off about Steve's new job requirements, Steve stared at his eggs. He couldn't bring himself to look at Bucky, but he was fairly sure that by now, he'd given him more than enough cause to beat him senseless.

Miserably, he poked at his egg until the yoke spilled onto his plate.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry I didn't finish this earlier! I just started summer classes and life has taken one hell of a fast spin recently ^^; thank you for all your kind words, they're very appreciated!

_Wham!_

The door shut loudly as Bucky nearly tossed Steve into an upstairs bedroom - out of earshot of his mother. Steve, unable to look Bucky in the eye, kept his head down and his hands tightly held together. Bucky paced, running his hand through his hair repetitively. When he finally did speak, he rounded to Steve like a whip.

"What was that?!" he demanded. "You were _supposed_ to tell her what Seymour was up to! Now I'm all wet and it's back to square one! And what's this maid nonsense?! Where did _that_ come from, huh, Stevie-boy?!"

"I'm sorry, but you gotta calm down-"

Bucky's voice rose an octave. "Calm down?!" Catching himself, he glanced at the door before lowering his voice and stepping closer. Steve kept his gaze downcast. "What do you think you're pullin' here? Huh? You in cahoots with the old man?"

"No!" Steve forced himself to look Bucky in the eye. "No, I don't know what happened. I just... I just _said_ it."

"Yeah. Well we're in a real pickle now, aren't we?" Growling, Bucky went back to running his fingers through his hair and pacing. "You just _had_ to screw the pooch, didn't you? Now Seymour's gonna be back just to rub my nose in this whole mess." He turned back to Steve. "Why couldn't you just say what you saw?"

A hot acid hit Steve's lungs as his stomach knotted terribly. Unable to keep his eyes up any longer, he shoved his hands in his pockets and stared at the floor, tapping it with the toe of his shoe. He could feel the steam rising from his ears. "I just couldn't. Your ma's such a nice lady and... and... I just..." He hunched his bony shoulders. "Thinkin' about what a lady like that might think of someone like me..."

Bucky loosened, but just barely. "Yeah... Well I got a few thoughts on you if you wanna hear 'em, pal."

"Bucky, I'm sorry." Steve looked up, pleading. "I really didn't mean any of it. I'll-I'll leave right now. You'll never be bothered again, scout's honor."

Bucky sighed, hands on his narrow hips. Even in distress, Steve couldn't help but admire the way his body formed beneath his shirt. "No... No, the damage is done. If you scat now, she'll get suspicious." He knit his brows together. "What the hell are we gonna do when Seymour comes back?"

Steve felt the pit of his stomach hit the floor. "You don't think he'll...? He wouldn't turn me in, would he?" But Bucky placed a hand on his shoulder, calming him instantly.

"Nah. If he tried, he'd have to out himself, too. Not to mention I'd have your back."

"You would?" Steve's face was bright with surprise. "But... I've been nothing but trouble, haven't I?"

Bucky laughed. It was as handsome as the rest of him. "Trust me. You don't know trouble. At least you can work off your debt if you're really that concerned." Bucky became lost in thought a moment, staring out the window. Slowly, an idea dawned on him. "Hey... hey, you know this could work."

"What could?"

"This." Bucky gestured to Steve. "You. Here. Working. Shoot, you'd be an extra pair of eyes and ears, wouldn't you? A regular fly on a wall. A true-blue spy!"

"Spy? Me?" Steve pointed to himself. "Oh, gee, I dunno. I don't think I can-"

"Sure you can! Who knows, maybe Seymour would try and put the moves on you again. Then we'd _really_ catch the bastard!" Spotting Steve's discomfort, Bucky slowed down and threw an arm around Steve's shoulders. His knees buckled at the weight. "I'm joshin' you, obviously. But, he might confide in you, seeing as how you... well... like I said, it's your business. But we might get a jump on him if he tries it again."

Steve didn't seem convinced. "I don't know about this..."

"It'll be fine. Plus, I know mom will pay you pretty well." Steve jerked at the mention of pay, and Bucky continued. "That's why you were doing what you were doing last night, right? Needed cash?" Steve didn't answer, but his silence said it all. "Look, I won't ask what it's for, but I promise you you'll get it. Don't even sweat, Stevie. It'll all come together in the end." Taking his arm away, Bucky opened the door. "I'll take you home."

But Steve shook his head. "I can catch a train into the city."

"It's a bit of a walk-"

"I like walking." Steve stepped out of the room, and the two made their way to the front door. "I got a lot to think about today..."

"I hear you," said Bucky. "Don't worry. It'll be fine."

Just as they were making their way to the front door, it opened. There, on the doorstep, stood Seymour. He wore the same things he had last night, his wrinkles and imperfections all the more visible in the daytime. Steve did note, however, that the man wasn't ugly, nor was he even that old. Perhaps he might have been closer to Steve's late father's age. The three men stared each other down for a long, uncomfortable silence.

"James..." Seymour took a step inside. "Tell me you haven't-"

"Haven't what, grifter?" Bucky spat.

Seymour flinched and glanced at Steve. "What's that boy doing here?"

"He's our new help!" The pleasant voice of Gertrude pulled them out of their conversation. The woman stepped into the foyer, wrapping a scarf around her head. "Isn't it lovely? James found one of his friends to help around the house." She approached her husband, giving Seymour a peck on the cheek. "Now. Just where were you last night, Mr. Rodchester? I was starting to worry."

Again, Seymour glanced at Bucky. At this point, the latter was fuming, but remained silent. Steve went back to staring at the tips of his shoes. Realizing he was in the clear for now, Seymour turned to Gertrude and kissed her sweetly. Steve saw Bucky's fist shake with rage.

"You know work, darling," said Seymour. "I had to stay over at the Davis' home. It was just too late to drive back."

"Oh, you work so hard." Gertrude began flattening Seymour's coat, tucking things in here and there. "Well, no doubt you'll want a little shut eye. Go on upstairs and I'll bring you some breakfast."

"You are a saint." With one more kiss, Seymour was up the stairs, whistling as innocently as you please. Bucky hadn't even turned to watch him go.

"Well!" Gertrude, unable to sense her son's obvious frustrations, turned to the pair of them. "If you need me, I'll be cooking your father his eggs."

"He's not my father," Bucky grumbled.

Gertrude clicked her tongue and tweaked Bucky's ear. "Mind your tongue, James. I've told you once, I've told you a hundred times." She turned to Steve then, her smile back. "Be sure you get here no later than seven. Lots to do."

Steve nodded. "Of course, Mrs. Rodchester. Thank you."

 

◆ ◇ ◆ ◇ ◆ ◇ ◆

 

It took Steve an hour and a half to get back into the city. The contrast between his and Bucky's homes was astonishing. There were so many little things that Steve never bothered to notice; the chipping paint, the leaky fire-hydrants, the busted up cars on the side of the road... He stared at it all, reminded sorely of those perfect, pristine homes and elegant lawns. And yet, with all its cracked pavement and constant noise, Steve couldn't bring himself to hate Brooklyn. It was his home.

He walked deeper into the Irish part of town. Static radios flooded from open windows with laundry laced between their sills. Pigeons cooed on rooftops, unaware of the cats that stalked them from below. Bent and dented trashcans marked alleyways and sidewalks. Children played ball in the street, dodging out of the way of the occasional car. Finally, he came to his apartment building. The homes were small there, often sporting a family of five or more, with only two beds to spare. Steve and his mother had the misfortune of sharing their unit with an old widow named Mrs. Keegan, who took every opportunity to comment on Steve whenever she felt the need. Though sometimes her accent was so thick, he could barely understand her.

Stepping into his apartment, he saw the silver haired Mrs. Keegan knitting by the radio while her pet parakeet squawked in a cage next to her. Her beady eyes snapped up when Steve stepped inside. "And wher'v you been?"

"Um... got a job."

"Ohh? A job now s't?" Mrs. Keegan shook her head. "Dohin what? Cahn't do noh man's wurk with dem skeeny arms. When ah wahs a wee knacker, ah had meh first job tendin to ouhr cohws. Got mhyself oup fohr dah sun..." She continued to ramble on and on about Steve's ineptitude compared to herself as a child. Letting her talk, Steve slipped into the room he and his mother shared. Shutting the door, he watched her wake from her sleep.

"Steve?" Sara sat up slowly from her bed. She'd always been a beautiful woman, but time and illness had withered her away lately. Her hair was knotted and curled around her shoulders, grease clumping it together in strands. Her clothes nearly slid off her body; a clear sign of her weight loss. Her skin, once so pink with light and laughter, had turned pallid and stale. She was dying, and they both knew it.

Bucking himself up, Steve managed a smile and sat on the bed beside her. "I'm back, ma. I got myself a job."

Her blue eyes lit up like lightning bugs. "Oh..." She held a feeble hand to his cheek. "I'm so proud of you, Steven. Where?"

"A rich family upstate wants me to clean house. Shouldn't be too hard."

"Are they kind?"

"Yes. They have a son my age."

"Think he'll be your friend?"

Steve's smile grew sheepish. "Well... I don't wanna get my hopes up. But maybe."

Sara tried to smile more, but began coughing. Steve felt his face drop as she bent forward and coughed endlessly into her hand. Steve held her gently, and waited for the fit to pass. His heart twisted in worry. "I'll make enough to get you to a doctor. That's all I care about."

Sara shook her head. "Now don't you worry about me, baby." Looking at her son, she gently pet his cheek. "I'm just so glad you're making your way in the world."

"Are you hungry?"

"No. I think I'll sleep some more."

"All right." 

Sara Rogers was asleep within a few minutes. Steve, sitting on his own beat up mattress, stared at her with his arms crossed over his kneecaps. The last day and a half had been the strangest he'd ever had. Frankly, he didn't know if this plan of Bucky's would even work, let alone what would happen to him if anyone found out what he'd try to do... Still, if he managed to gather up enough to get his mother well again, he'd risk just about anything.

And then there was Bucky.

He knew Steve had no right to think about him the way he did. Hell, Bucky had been so patient with him that if he knew how Steve looked at him, that might be the straw that breaks the camel's back. He couldn't help himself. Everything about him sent Steve's blood racing. He closed his eyes and recalled how he looked that morning, dressed like a man in a pulp fiction novel. Or how he rode that motorcycle of his, with Steve's thin arms tight around his firm waist. More than anything, however, Steve was blindsided by Bucky's kindness. He'd never met a man so good-natured and true. In a way, it made him feel worse for thinking these things. He didn't care. He'd take these dirty secrets to the grave if he had to.

Rooting around beneath his mattress, Steve pulled out a stack of old news papers and a matchbox. Opening the box, he removed a piece of charcoal and laid the news print on a flat piece of board. He'd never had more than two nickles to rub together when it came to himself, so when he felt the need to draw, Steve had to get creative.

Hunkering down, he began to sketch with the charcoal piece. He moved his hand flawlessly against the grey print, the coal staining his fingers black. For hours he remained where he was, blowing away black dust from time to time. Every so often, he closed his eyes, recalling the image he wanted. As the sun went down, he stared at the drawing in his lap.

Bucky Barnes, in bold black color, stared endlessly back at him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry these have been coming slow! I'm currently taking summer classes, so I don't have much time outside of that ^^; I do want to finish this though!
> 
> By the way, did you know I wrote real books too? https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/25359498-unscripted If you go to my publisher's website, I think you can get a cheap ebook for it.

Steve woke up that morning well before sunrise. Frankly, it was difficult for him to sleep. He tossed and turned, occasionally looking at his charcoal sketch when he felt the urge. He wondered, vaguely, if there was ever a possibility that Bucky wouldn't beat him senseless if he saw Steve in this condition. But soon enough, Steve's tin alarm clock rang, and he was up and dressed within ten minutes. Everything he wore had been pressed and ironed just for his first day. If he wanted to make the kind of money he needed, he was going to have to look the part. 

It was still cold when Steve walked out. The sky was dark as night, and only a few paper boys and milk men were out at this time. Steve greeted a few he recognized before hopping the train leading to up-town. Getting off at the final stop on the route, there was still a good mile and a half of walking to do before arriving. By the time he got to Bucky's front door, it was just nearing seven.

Steve knocked and stepped away, hands nervously flattening down his hair. The door swung open, and there stood Gertrude, bright and chipper as a morning blue-jay. "Right on time!" she praised. "Come in, come in, Steve. Have you eaten yet?"

"Oh, no ma'am. Just a little milk before I left home."

"Well that just won't do. Sit, and I'll get you some toast." He did, reacquainting himself with the cheerful kitchen. "So! I have a full shopping list for you today, and plenty of chores. I expect them done promptly and done right the first time."

"Yes, ma'am," said Steve.

Handing him a plate of toast and fresh eggs, she even poured him a small glass of milk. Smiling, she sat adjacent to him. "Mr. Rodchester and I will be out at the theater tonight, but we'll be home in time for supper. If you need help in the kitchen, feel free to ask James."

Steve, chewing his toast, squirmed slightly at Bucky's mention. "He's not up is he?"

"Oh gracious no," said Gertrude. "He never gets up before me. Last night he seemed on edge a bit."

"On edge," Steve repeated.

"Yes... Well, who knows what goes through the mind of a young man?" She chuckled, waving off her concerns. "You eat up and wash the dishes when you're finished, and we'll get started with the weeding."

"Yes, ma'am."

The gardening was tedious and made his back ache, but Steve endured. The sun, thankfully, wasn't so hot, and Steve managed to withstand the warmth on his back whenever he bent down. He plucked the prickly weeds one by one, tossing them all in a bucket to be tossed later. After the first hour, his thin face was slick with sweat, causing a few unsightly spots on his shirt. Gertrude waved him inside with an ice cold glass of water to cool off. That's when someone familiar made his way down the steps.

"Good morning, mom."

"Ah, James." She brightened over Steve's shoulder. Steve did his best to act casual, but felt a burn on the back of his neck. It had nothing to do with the morning heat. "Good morning, darling. I'm pleased to report your friend arrived right on time today."

"Did he?" Bucky stepped into the kitchen, taking an apple as he walked. Steve watched, blank faced, as Bucky bit into it. His defined features shifted and stretched his smooth, newly shaven skin. "Well good for him," he said, a little sarcasm in his voice. "Looks like I chose well, wouldn't you say?"

"Absolutely." Gertrude agreed. "Now what are you up to, young man?"

Bucky shrugged, taking a few more bites. "I was thinking about heading into town for a bit. Nothing special."

"Oh good." She laid her hands on Steve's arm. "Then you can escort him to the grocer today." She held up a finger before Bucky protested. "It won't take long. I'm giving him a list. You can show him around the neighborhood."

Clearly, Bucky had other plans, but agreed without complaint. "When do we leave?"

"Well he's got a bit of silver to polish, but once that's over with, you two should be back in time for lunch." Like a hummingbird, Gertrude then went to the cabinet, going on and on about what silver Steve needed to polish, how long, and with what rag. As she spoke, Bucky took a step closer to Steve, half eaten apple in his hand. 

"Didn't think you'd go through with this," he said lowly.

Steve glanced at him. "I told you. I needed money."

Bucky sighed, taking a few more bites. He turned, showing his back to his mother, lest she read his lips. "How much?"

That's when Steve turned, surprised. "What?"

"How much did you need?" Bucky clarified. "The more I think of you here with Seymour the more my stomach turns. Lemme just spot you and send you on your way."

Steve felt a throb of guilt and embarrassment. "I'm not a charity case," Steve said immediately. "I don't beg for money, I earn it. I'm a man capable of that much."

A tiny smile glinted on Bucky's lips. "A man, huh?" He didn't elaborate. "There's no shame in taking help when you need it."

But Steve shook his head. "I can work for a living."

Finishing his fruit, Bucky examined what was left. "Hey." He held it up playfully. "Apple core."

Steve smiled. "Really?" He hadn't played apple core since he was a child.

"Apple core," Bucky repeated.

"Baltimore," Steve replied.

"Who's your friend?"

Steve was about to answer, when the last member of the household took his attention instead. Seymour Rodchester was in his dressing gown, tied tightly around his waist. He stared at the pair of them, hands in his pockets. "So. Your little visit yesterday wasn't enough. I suppose you're taking this new position to heart, then?" He didn't seem pleased. Instead of answering, Steve leaned into Bucky and thumbed in Seymour's direction.

"Him." Bucky nearly snorted, and Seymour looked confused.

"Steven?" called Gertrude. "I have the silver ready for you!"

"Coming, ma'am!" Steve made his way towards the kitchen. As he closed the swinging doors behind him, he caught a glimpse of Bucky throwing the apple core straight at Seymour's head.

 

◆ ◇ ◆ ◇ ◆ ◇ ◆

 

The store trip was pleasant. After polishing the silver, Steve and Bucky made their way to the local grocer's. Steve's neighborhood didn't have much in the way of a grocery store. There were fruit stands and a few markets, but nothing to this extent. He looked on in awe as food of all kinds was presented to him in brightly painted wooden displays. Children smudged the glass of sweets and pastries as their mothers compared the price of flour. While Steve took in the details of the market place, Bucky went to the list.

"Corn meal, flour, sugar, salt, beef, onions..." He went down a few things, nodding mechanically. "Right. Seems easy enough. First we'll head to the butcher in the back."

"Wait," said Steve. "You have a butcher _here?_ As in, in the market _itself_?"

Bucky beamed. "The building is fairly new. I heard that soon, there will be a market like this everywhere."

"Wowie," he breathed, his eyes big. "I don't think I've ever been in a market place this big, let alone one with its own butcher." He rounded back to Bucky. "You think Brooklyn will get something like this soon? Harlem even?"

"I think so."

Walking to the butcher, Steve saw cuts of meat he personally couldn't afford in his entire life. Slabs of Grade A beef and lamb, fresh pig, fish caught just the night before. Looking at the display of fine food, Steve could feel his stomach rumble.

"Heya, Mikey," Bucky greeted the butcher. Mikey was a burly, stout man, his faded apron stained with blood and grease. "Ma needs the usual."

Mikey grinned. Steve would admit to himself it was a little unsettling. "A pound of flesh? You got it, boss." He sliced, measured, and wrapped the purchase in new brown paper, tying it up in scratchy twine. "Who's your friend?"

"Oh this here's Steve Rogers." Steve nodded, but stayed silent. "Steve here's been helping out around the house."

"Is he now?" Mikey put the meat on the scale. "Don't recognize him. Where're you from, kiddo?"

"Brooklyn."

"Oh, a city boy, eh? I come from Queens myself." He eyed the scale. "Just one pound, right? It's gonna be 19¢, Buck."

"Nineteen?" Bucky said, flabbergasted. "Shoot, last week it was only sixteen."

Mikey shrugged. "Sorry. Times are tough, you know. If I could give you the old price I would."

Begrudgingly, Bucky took the slab off the scale and put it in Steve's arms. "Well thanks anyway. I'll see you next week."

They walked deeper into the market, collecting the other ingredients on the check list. Steve, sadly, felt his arms going weak the longer he carried their groceries, and was soon delegated to holding the onions and corn meal, while Bucky shouldered the rest. After paying their total, they got their food wrapped and headed back to Bucky's auto. Steve hadn't asked if the car belonged to him specifically or not; in all honesty, he had a feeling the Barnes/Rodchester household could afford more than one automobile. They stuffed what they had in the back seat and started their drive back home. Sitting rigidly on the pristine leather seat, Steve folded his hands tightly in his lap, trying desperately not to ruin anything around him. Bucky glanced at his posture and laughed.

"Hey. No need to be all stiff like," he teased. "I doubt you could lift one of this baby's tires let alone break something. Breathe." Steve relaxed a little bit, the air lighter between them. He was starting to get used to being around so many high priced things. "So how're you liking it? Being a 'maid.''

"I like it fine," said Steve honestly. "There are worse things..." His words died off as he was reminded vibrantly of how he and Bucky met. Had it really on been two nights ago? Clearing his throat, he stared out the window sheepishly. A pause hung in the air.

"How many times do I have to tell you I don't care about what you were up to?" Bucky finally said. "Listen... I know I don't look it, but I know what it's like to just scrape by."

Steve turned back, this time with surprise. "You do?"

Bucky nodded. "Yup. When my Pops died, my uncle tried to take everything he owned from us in a legal battle. We lived for two years on soup kitchens and charity. It wasn't pretty. So when I think back to those years and how desperate we were... Hell, I mighta been a floozy myself if I had the idea."

Steve felt himself loosen in relief. Bucky had said it more than a few times that he didn't care what Steve was up to, but hearing the explanation set him at ease. He leaned against his seat, arm along the edge of the window. "So... you're not gonna get the urge to clean my clock any time soon?"

Again, Bucky laughed. "No, sir," he said brightly. "At least, not unless you give me a reason to." His grin spread and he glanced at his passenger. "I figure a scrawny cat like you would go down after the first couple of hits."

"Ha! You'd think so, wouldn't you? You'd be surprised."

"Oh yeah? Then surprise me, Steve Rogers." The pair of them laughed, though for Steve, it was only to suppress the words lingering on the tip of his tongue:

_Careful what you wish for. I just might._

 

◆ ◇ ◆ ◇ ◆ ◇ ◆

 

Whatever engagement Bucky had that day, it seemed as though he'd forgotten about it. He stayed at home as Steve did his list of chores for the day, hovering over his shoulder and edging him to take a break when it looked too worn out. All the while, he snuck him lemonade and snacks from the pantry, as though he had nothing better to do. By the end of it, Steve was full of random nibbles and lemonade, and was currently in the kitchen, laughing into a dish rag. Bucky had just made a joke that would make his mother rise from her sick bed to slap them both.

"Oh ohhh!" Steve leaned against the counter, wiping the tears from his eyes. "Where did you even _hear_ something like that?!"

"You just gotta hang around the right people."

"More like the _wrong_ people."

They continued to laugh, and after he'd finished the last of the dishes, Steve arranged them neatly in their cupboard and turned, towel over his shoulder. "How long will your folks be at the theater?"

"Probably till late. You don't have to stay that long if you don't want." Bucky rose from the table and checked his mother's list. "Looks like you got this whole thing done."

Steve blinked, checking again. "Wait... but what about dinner?" Steve insisted. "I can start cooking the potatoes at least!"

"Hey, you've worked hard today," Bucky said, shrugging it off. "I could cook before they get home. Don't want their food going cold now, do we?"

"I guess not..."

"James? James!" Gertrude stepped into the kitchen, now dressed to the nines for the evening. She wore a pleasant perfume and a string of pearls around her thin neck. Steve straightened politely.

"You look lovely, ma'am."

Gertrude laughed charmingly, her gloved fingers on her chin. "You are the most wonderful young man!" She stepped closer, checking her purse. "Now, James, we'll be out until about nine tonight. About dinner-"

"I'll cook it," Bucky said immediately. "I've already given Steve the rest of the night."

Rather than protest, Gertrude seemed pleased, and reached into her clutch. "Of course. Now. Here's payment for the day." She put a folded bill in his hand. "Tomorrow come at the same time, and I'll have a new list for you. It's laundry day."

Steve unfolded the bill and looked at his first payment. His eyes grew twice their size, and his jaw dropped. Twenty dollars stared back at him. Throat in knots, he looked back to Gertrude, but she didn't look like she made a mistake. "M-Mrs. Rodchester... I-I can't... This is too much-!"

Gertrude waved it aside. "Think nothing of it. You withstood an entire day of my son, that's worth some extra compensation."

" _Mom_ ," Bucky complained.

Still, Steve tried to hand it back. "I can't, really. It's too much. I can't take this in good conscious."

Gertrude hesitated and glanced at her son. After a moment, she reached out, but not to take the money back. Instead, she curled Steve's fingers around the bill. "Mr. Rogers," she said calmly, "I'm not a blind woman. We can't help every struggling boy in this country, but we can help some of them. Take it. Save it for your family. And come back tomorrow to keep earning it."

Steve once more looked to Bucky, but he simply stood, hands on his hips with a smile on his face. Steve felt moved to tears by the gesture, and tried desperately to conceal his true feelings. Ultimately, he was betrayed. Thankfully, Bucky and his mother were kind enough not to comment as he wiped his eyes.

"Now. You head on home. Get yourself something good to eat. Save the rest."

Wordlessly, Steve nodded, feeling touched by the angels above.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM SO SORRY FOR NOT UPDATING. The last couple of times I tried, I was either interrupted without getting far or the internet went down. I'm out of school till the end of the month, (AND I finished my next book - yay!) so I should be able to work on this a bit more. I might even finish it soon. Still working out the details. I'm glad so many of you are enjoying this! I'll try to post more frequently from now on :)

It was a beautiful spring day. The sun, hanging high above Manhattan, sat on a stage of blue sky and cheerful clouds. Rich or poor, up-town or down, it was a day meant to be enjoyed. And even though he was busy with work, Steve Rogers was enjoying it thoroughly. He hummed to himself as the linen fluttered along laundry lines all around him. He felt like he was swimming in his own sea of clouds, just like the sun above him. His arms ached and his neck had begun to feel the heat of the day. He didn't care. Though the past week had been filled with menial tasks and long hours, he'd found a place of comfort in the Barnes estate. Mrs. Rodchester treated him more like a son than the help. She often asked him questions about his day, what he liked, if he'd eaten, and so on. She never failed to praise him for his hard work, and even began sending him home with food. The neighborhood itself was a pleasant one. On the numerous errands Steve ended up running, he'd become acquainted with not only the butcher, but the barber, the milk man, the newspaper boys, a few cab drivers, and the local ally cats, who seemed to be very fond of Steve's habit of leaving saucers of milk and bits of meat out behind the house every morning.

Bucky was an absolute joy to be around. The work, often, didn't even feel like work in those moments. Bucky made him laugh, made him think. They took lunch together almost every day, and when Bucky returned home from his adventures, he greeted Steve with a ruffle of his hair or an arm thrown around his shoulders. He brought Steve nick-knacks and sweets, and spun tales of his friends and their wild nights together. Once or twice, Bucky urged Steve to accompany him. Steve always politely declined.

And then there was Seymour. Mr. Rodchester's presence in the house was, at times, nearly nonexistent. He was either off to work (what he did Steve still wasn't sure) or treating Mrs. Rodchester to an evening out (or himself to one). He said very little to Steve. In fact, there were moments when Seymour barely acknowledged his presence. Once or twice, he made a bit of an off color reference to Steve as "the help," and left it at that. Bucky, clearly, was still keeping his eye on the man for another slip-up. Thus far, Seymour hadn't been quite as careless as before. In any case, Steve was left alone to indulge in the company of his new employers, and was a happier man for it. The twenty dollar bill had covered the entire week's pay (it was still too much in Steve's mind) but Gertrude had insisted on tipping him at the end of every night. By Saturday, he had fifteen dollars and thirty six cents; he'd spent six dollars on decent food and counter medication for his mother after his first day of work, and another ten on a pair of shoes that weren't full of holes. Once he had thirty, he'd be able to afford to call a doctor for Sara.

Having finished the laundry, Steve went inside to take his lunch. Bucky had left early for the afternoon. Something about a boxing match. Gertrude was out as well, having mentioned that Saturday was her sewing circle. Deciding to entertain himself while he ate his sandwich, he pulled a new notebook and pencil from his bag. He'd spent a whole sixty four cents on himself, and in Steve's opinion, it was worth every penny. It was the first real sketch book he'd ever owned.

Already there were sketches and doodles done by his fancy new pencil. Today, with a sandwich in one hand, Steve had decided to sketch the bowl of fruit sitting opposite him on the counter. A row of grapes, two oranges, a shiny apple, and a pear, all arranged perfectly in a small wooden bowl. His hand sketched flawlessly, as if it had a mind of its own. The lead gently scratched and spread along the pristine paper. By the time he'd finished half his sandwich, the rough sketch was nearly done.

"Ah. Here again I see."

Steve jumped and turned sharply. Seymour stood at the door of the kitchen, newspaper under his arm. Steve closed his book, as though he was guilty to have it. "Hello, Mr. Rodchester," he said, trying to keep himself composed. There was always an air of unease between the two men.

Seymour stepped further into the kitchen, pulling the chair for himself at the far end of the table. It screeched against the floor unpleasantly before Seymour settled in. He folded open his paper and began reading. "Well?" His eyes never lifted from the paper. "Where's my lunch?"

Steve's hand lowered to the plate in front of him. "I... didn't know you'd be eating in today, sir."

"Did you bother asking?"

"...No."

"Then I dare say it doesn't matter what you _thought_ , does it?"

Steve's jaw locked in place. The sandwich he had enjoyed just moments before now felt acidic in his stomach. He set his own food down and stood, eyes fixated on Seymour's paper. Seymour remained cool and unbothered. "Fine. What would you like, Mr. Rodchester?"

"Ham and eggs, poached. Don't over-season them; I like to _taste_ my food. Black coffee with that as well. Don't burn the beans. They're expensive."

 _Would a "please" kill you, buster?_ Steve refrained from speaking his mind, and instead went to the ice box. He began to prepare the left-over ham and poach two eggs. As the water boiled for Seymour's coffee, the only sounds were the occasional page turn and the constant ticking of the hallway clock.

"How long does James intend to have you here?" The question was sudden, and made Steve pause. "Whatever he's playing at, you can tell him it won't work. He had his chance to expose me and he squandered it. From where I sit, the game is over."

Steve's throat knotted at the mention of Bucky. "I'm just here to help out, sir."

Seymour scoffed. "Yes. And I'm a perfectly normal, happily married man." He folded the newspaper tightly and set it on the table. "Is my food ready yet?"

"Eggs are still cooking."

"Then bring me the coffee, for God's sake."

Steve did, and kept his eyes from looking at Mr. Rodchester at any cost. As he was setting the mug down, however, Seymour grabbed his thin wrist in a sudden motion. Steve jumped, but stood his ground. He and Seymour locked eyes. 

"Whatever James is offering you, I'll double it," he said. "Surely there's no reason _you_ want to be here? Times are hard. I can make sure you're able to live comfortably for the rest of your life."

"Correct me if I'm wrong," said Steve with a scowl, "but I don't think that money's yours to give." 

"I have my own money," Seymour insisted.

"But that's not what you're offering, is it?"

Slowly, Seymour's fingers unfurled on his arm. Steve jerked his hand away, standing boldly. He was a small man; hell, a good wind could probably knock him over. But if there was one thing Steve Rogers was good at, it was getting back up. Hopefully, he wouldn't need to. "Bucky and his mother are kind enough to want me around. I'm willing to work for every penny I make. I won't be bribed."

Mr. Rodchester sneered, his arms folded against the table. "Well... Aren't you high and mighty? The pinnacle of ethics and morality, hm?" Taking a silver tin from his dressing gown, he pulled out a pre-rolled cigarette and lit it. It rested against his aging lips, the tip of his mustache scratching against the paper. After breathing in a sound hit, he pinched the stick between his knuckles and blew out in a crisp, straight stream. "Quite a different picture from the night we met, I must say."

Steve's throat contracted. That night returned to him in full color. The feel of the icy cold cement beneath his knees. The harsh way he was handled by unknown hands. The horrible shame that plagued every inch of him just at the thought of what he was about to do. It all came crashing down on Steve like a tidal wave. It must have shown on his face, because Seymour smiled, his cigarette once more to his lips.

"You know..." He stood, ignoring his freshly poured coffee. "Perhaps you can earn your money a different way? After all... What was it? Twenty dollars a week?" Cigarette once more between his fingers, he tilted up Steve's jaw. "Milk money. If I can't pay you off easy, I'm more than willing to let you do some labor for it. And don't worry. It's all my own money, I promise you."

" _Stop it_." Steve's voice was harsh, yet it wavered with fear. His hands trembled beside him. Steve clenched them into fists, if only to try and keep them still.

Seymour chuckled, grabbing Steve's jaw. The smell of the lit cigarette was potent, and it made Steve's eyes water. Steve tried pulling away, but Seymour's grip was strong. "You can try," he slithered. "You can sit here and play pretend. Do the dishes, fold the laundry, make good with James and Gertrude... What will that get you? What's the point? Because in the end, you're just like me." Leaning in, Seymour gave Steve a slow, threatening kiss to his cheek. The bristles of his mustache scratched Steve's fair skin and sent repulsive shivers down his spine. When he pulled back from his kiss, he kept their faces close.

" _A faggot._ "

"Darling? I'm home!" The sound of Gertrude's voice was like the ring of a church bell. _Salvation!_ Steve rolled out of Seymour's grip and darted to the back garden, only barely grabbing his new sketchbook along the way. He launched from the back doors and rushed to the farthest part of the Barnes estate. It was a high brick wall, decorated with gas lamps for garden parties. Steve found a spot behind the oak tree and collapsed in the shadows. There, curled into a tight ball, he clutched his sketchbook to his breast and shut his eyes tightly. His heart was rapid, and every muscle in his body pulsed sporadically. He tried controlling his breath, but it refused to curb for at least a few more minutes. When a calm did fall over him, Steve slowly loosened his body. He stared up into the leaves of the oak's branches. Sunlight twinkled through them like stars. The world was quiet. His mind was not. 

 

◆ ◇ ◆ ◇ ◆ ◇ ◆

 

"Doctor. Thank you for coming."

"Of course. Where is your mother?"

Steve stepped aside, ushering the physician into the bedroom. Sara was sitting up today, and beside her bed was a half eaten bowl of soup and a bottle of medicine. She smiled kindly as the two men walked inside. "Hello. You must be the doctor."

"I am," he said, taking his hat off in Sara's presence. "My name is Dr. Mathews. Your son has asked me to start looking in on you."

Sara turned to Steve, giving her child a warm smile. "He's a good boy." Steve returned the gesture.

"He is." Dr. Mathews turned to Steve. "But for now... would you mind?"

At first, Steve didn't understand. "Oh!" He jumped and quickly exited the room. "Right, sorry! I'll just be out here if you need me." Sara nodded and Steve shut the door behind him. Mrs. Keegan, thankfully, was not at home today. Sunday was her shopping trip; hence why Steve asked the doctor to come by that day specifically. The last thing he needed was to hear the old bitty rant and rave about the disappointments of today's youth while Steve was racked with worry. Still, he supposed he shouldn't be.

 _Ma's eating,_ he reminded himself. Grabbing his sketchbook, he sat on the edge of the window. _And this doctor agreed to see her for half the normal price. He seems kind._ After the debacle with Seymour, Steve felt a rush to find a doctor who would see his mother for less than thirty dollars. It was difficult, but after many visits and plenty of pleading, he came across Dr. Mathews. Steve only had a dollar and fifteen cents left after this visit. He wasn't bothered.

Opening his book, he began to doodle. His eyes fell to Mrs. Keegan's parakeet, which was gnawing at the bars on its cage. It was less annoying today than usual, which Steve was grateful for. He began to do quick gesture drawings of the bird as it squawked and waddled about. As his fingers worked, his mind wandered.

He didn't want to go back Monday. He knew that Seymour would be gone for the day, but what would happen when he returned? Would he attack Steve again? Should he try to fight this time? Or would that make it worse? He imagined sweet Gertrude coming home to find her husband roughed up by the housekeeper. Any hope he had of a steady flow of money was dashed immediately. Bucky might help but...

_Bucky..._

He'd already made so much trouble for him. He knew that Bucky's heart was in the right place, and God only knew how thankful Steve was. But there was hesitation. Steve had made quick friends with Bucky Barnes. In recent memory, there was no one whose company he enjoyed more. There were times, in fact, where Steve even felt a _longing_ to see Bucky. And therein laid his problems. Bucky had proven himself a kind man and a good friend. After their shopping trip, Steve's guilt over his feelings towards Bucky was diminished. After yesterday, it had doubled in size.

Steve was ashamed of himself for ever thinking of Bucky that way. As vile as Seymour was, he was right. He and Steve were two sides of the same coin. Pulling Bucky into his warped sense of romance felt like he was tainting him some way. As though to touch or even look at Bucky with loving eyes was to ruin him. As though his hands and Seymour's were one in the same.

Steve didn't notice that he'd stopped sketching until the door opened. The doctor stepped out. His bag was closed, his hat was on, and his face was grim. Steve rose to his feet at once and approached. "Dr. Mathews?" Dr. Mathews looked to him with sympathy. Steve could already feel his heart drop. "What is it, doctor?"

"It's pneumonia. I can treat her bit by bit, but she needs to be hospitalized."

"A-all right. How much will that cost? How soon should she be moved?"

Dr. Mathews shifted. "There is a place she can go. It's not far. It's also free of charge."

It took a moment for realization to dawn on him. "A sanatorium?" 

"It's not the best choice, but she'll be taken care of there. Fed, washed, medicated..."

"She might also die." His jaw was set and his brows were knit. "I know what happens in sanatoriums, Dr. Mathews. I was in them more times than I could count as a child. Ten children including myself caught measles when I was eight. I was the only one living by the end. Some of them might have lived if they were treated properly. She's not going there."

Dr. Mathews sighed. "Then... I'll do my best. But it won't be easy."

"I'll pay whatever it takes." He held out the remainder of his money to Dr. Mathews. The man stared at it, his withering eyes contemplative. Slowly, he closed Steve's hand around the money with his own.

"First visit's free," he said gently. "When I bring by medication or supplies, then you can pay me. Until such a time, save that money."

Steve slowly lowered his hand, money still clutched in it. "I... Thank you, doctor."

"Of course."

When Dr. Mathews left, the apartment was quiet (or as quiet as a tiny unit in a Brooklyn building could be). Steve walked into the bedroom and saw Sara laying back where she was. She had just been on the edge of sleep when the sound of her son woke her. Her eyes fluttered open and turned to where Steve sat at her bedside. She smiled and reached out. He took her frail, bony hand in his.

"What did the doctor say?" she asked.

"He's going to start coming by more often. I... I think you're going to be fine, Ma. I know it. You're strong, you'll pull through."

Sara laughed, which turned to a fit of horrible coughs. Steve held her hands until she was finished. When she settled, she took a moment to breathe. "If you believe in me... then I suppose I'll try my best."

Steve nodded. "I'll be here, too. Every step of the way."

Sara's smile returned. "My baby..." She held a hand to his cheek. "I should be taking care of _you._ "

"You already have," Steve assured her. "I promise you. This'll be over before you know it." Leaning in, he kissed her clammy forehead. "You should rest." Sara agreed. Soon enough, her eyes closed, and she drifted off into a quiet sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

"A movie?"

"Yeah. Feel like going?"

Steve stood straight up from the ironing board. Today was his second Friday working at the Barnes/Rodchester household. It was just after his lunch break when Bucky cornered him in the laundry room. Currently, he was ironing and folding the extra sheets for the house. Setting his hot iron aside, Steve wiped off his hands and turned to Bucky. "I probably shouldn't," he said. "I've got plenty to do before I leave for today."

Bucky waved his concerns aside. "Nah, I saw the list. You can finish all that up tomorrow, frankly."

"But Mrs. Rodchester-"

"Hey, I said don't worry about it." Bucky wrapped an arm around Steve. "You've had your nose in work for the past week, pal. Nothing wrong with a little fun time, right? It's what makes us human."

A week ago, Steve would have turned on a bright smile and enjoyed Bucky's attention. But since that Saturday, Seymour's words had left a haunting impression in his mind. Now, whenever his gaze wandered to Bucky, or whenever he leisurely crossed Steve's mind, he was met with a painful sting of remorse and disgust. Regardless, the idea of sharing a movie with Bucky was still an appealing one. No matter how much Seymour had tainted his feelings, they would still exist.

"Well... what's playing?" he asked.

"Wait... You mean you haven't heard?" Steve shook his head, and Bucky's smile grew. "It's a new MGM picture. It's supposed to be amazing. It's called 'The Wizard of Oz.'"

"Eh?" Steve blinked in confusion. "Wizard of... What kind of name is that? 'Oz'?"

"It's some new fantasy film, I think. The best part? It's all in _color_."

Steve's jaw dropped. "What? _All of it?_ "

"That's what I hear. Look." He dug through his pocket and pulled out a folded poster. Laying it flat on the board, Steve looked it over. It was a bright yellow page, with the title painted across in wild, bright colors. Five faces decorated opposite corners of each other. An old man, what looked like a scarecrow, some kind of lion-person, and on the top, a silver man and a sweet, smiling girl. The words "IN TECHNOCOLOR" curled along the bottom right corner of the poster. "I was going to take Dolores, but she canceled last minute. I've got an extra ticket... C'mon, Stevie, say you'll go." He even nudged Steve's arm.

Taking the poster for a closer look, his brows knit in consideration. "It... I mean... It's very bright."

"I swear it'll be good. On my life."

With that final prod, Steve nodded his head in defeat. "All right. Let me just finish up here and we'll head out."

"Ha!" Bucky slapped his shoulder. "Atta boy!"

It took Steve another twenty minutes to finish properly. When he was done, Bucky ushered him out from the house and into the car in the driveway. Steve tried not to be too amused at Bucky's excitement. Once in the automobile, Bucky drove them deeper into the city. Steve watched as Manhattan buildings sprang from the suburbs like fresh daisies. The streets were riddled with cars and pedestrians. Until now, Steve had only been as far as the grocers. Making their way deep into the heart of New York nearly had him tumbling out the window in awe.

"Jeez..." Steve craned his neck, staring at the tall sky scrapers. "Woah! They're bigger than anything I've ever seen!"

Bucky snorted. "You've never been inside the city before?"

"Not this part... I was sick for a long time, so I've ever been further than a sanitarium or hospital. After I got better I never strayed far from home. Except Coney Island sometimes."

"Sick?" Bucky repeated. "What kind of sick?"

"Oh shoot, you name it." Steve settled back in his seat, staring out the window still. "Fevers, fits, pneumonia, asthma... For a while, ma didn't think I'd ever make it past fifteen."

Bucky took a moment to answer. "I never knew... I mean, I guess it makes sense since you're such a skinny fella, but..."

"It's all right. I lasted this long. I don't intend on stopping now." He bundled his knees to his chest, chin between them. "I was sixteen once I started getting better and staying that way. Ma says it's God's way of saying I'm not ready to go yet. Personally I think I'm too stubborn to die."

"Mm. I think I believe that too." He turned a corner. "You and your mom religious then?"

"Ma can be," said Steve. "She's the first born American in our family. Back in Ireland, I know our relatives are pretty devout. As for me, I'd guess I'd say so. It's nice to think that there's some reason to all the craziness in this world, you know? It's comforting."

"Hm." Bucky slowed as a police officer eased a cluster of traffic. "I don't know what I believe." Steve turned to him fully. Bucky didn't take his eyes off the road. "Maybe there is something bigger than us, but who knows what it is? We're pretty small creatures, you know."

"Hey," Steve huffed, "don't count out the little guys here."

That had Bucky chuckling. "I mean, I've met so many cats who think they know what's what, and I mean about _everything._ They know why the sky's blue and they're too smart to know anything else. And I'm just thinking... There's gotta be more than that. There's gotta be more at the bottom of the ocean, or hell, even in the heavens! You ever looked at the stars, Stevie? You can't see them very well in the city, but out in the country? There's hundreds of them. _Millions._ It just sticks in your mind like... How can we _possibly_ know all there is?" A pause sat between them. Suddenly, Bucky laughed. "Sorry, sorry! Ah, I'm not making any sense, am I? My bad, pal, I tend to spin off like that sometimes."

"No it's..." Steve's words caught in his throat. He'd never taken such a perspective before. Knowing all their is to know? It hadn't even crossed his mind, really. Not that Steve ever considered himself a know-it-all, but he never really imagined the scope of Bucky's thoughts. "Boy... That's something else, Buck."

"Well hey, we're here." Bucky pulled the automobile to the side of the road and parked it. As Steve stepped out, he looked upon the greatest theater he'd ever seen. Oh sure, his neighborhood had a simple nickelodeon and a movie house, but it barely held a candle to the behemoth he stared at now. It stretched for a quarter of the block, with a sign at least three stories tall. The building itself was like a mountain, blocking the setting sun from the skyline. "THE WIZARD OF OZ" was arranged on the "Now Showing" sign in black letters, backlit by the glowing white board. Lights circled the signs and the windows, flashing in a pattern to make it look like the light was actually traveling around the sign's perimeter. Crowds young and old filtered through the doors with excitement. The buzz in the air was electrifying.

Bucky stamped their tickets and walked them inside. The lobby was wide and beautiful, with potted plants and carpeted floors. The concessions stand was a nicely polished, wooden bar, gleaming in the spotlights. The smell of popcorn made Steve's mouth water, his eyes wide at all manner of snacks being sold to movie goers. Bucky seemed to notice his gluttony because he began pushing Steve towards the line.

"Wha-hey!" Flustered, Steve turned to Bucky, his cheeks bright with embarrassment. "I don't need anything."

"Sure you don't."

"I can do without, really. I have to save money."

"Uh huh." Bucky scanned the bar. "Then I'll treat."

"Wha? No!" Steve flailed. "I don't want- I'm not a-!"

"Charity case, I know." Bucky put his hand on Steve's head and ruffled his sandy blond hair. "This is what friends do, you know. We treat each other. Don't be such a pill about it, pally."

Steve pouted, but had no more protest to give. By the time they were at the front of the line, Bucky gave Steve his pick of the litter. Steve stared at all the candies on display, itching to take them all home. "I'll just... I'll just have some popcorn," he decided.

Bucky chuckled. "All right then. Hey, Joe, let me get a popcorn between us, two cokes and a packet of Milk Duds." The man behind the counter compiled all of Bucky's snack foods together and rang him up.

"Okay... Total's 35¢."

"Jeeze, all that for some snacks?" Steve lamented. Bucky paid with no protest and had Steve carry the bucket of popcorn and a bottle of Coca Cola. Despite the price, the popcorn smelled amazing.

"Let's go get our seats," said Bucky. He checked his tickets. "Ah, we're in the back. Oh well. The screen's big enough." Bucky lead them inside, and for the third time that day, Steve was awed. The theater itself was gargantuan, with a screen taller than any he'd ever seen before. Red velvet curtains tucked to either side of it, and a short stage sat below. The ceiling rose high, with beautiful paintings etched with gold. Steve had only read about places like the Sistine Chapel. At the moment, he felt like he was in it. He was in the middle of stretching his neck when Bucky tugged at his arm. 

"This way, kiddo." They made their way towards the back of the theater, finding two comfortable, cushy seats. The bucket of popcorn sat between them, with their bottles of soda on either side. Bucky ripped open the top of his Milk Duds and popped a couple in his mouth. "Wan wan?" he asked, his mouth thick with chocolate and caramel. Steve nodded and took a couple for himself. The overwhelming sweetness made him salivate. "Hey." Bucky took a handful of popcorn and shoved it in his mouth with the caramel. "Pawpcown bawl." He pointed to his full cheeks. 

Steve snorted, but mimicked the act. The sweet, salty taste of popcorn and candy swirled in his mouth in perfect harmony. Though he'd be lying if he didn't say he felt a cavity coming on. Swallowing, he took a sip of coke to wash it all down with. "I've never tried that before. What are those things again?"

"Milk Duds. Good, right?" He put a few more in Steve's hand. "Have as many as you want." 

All around them, the lights began to dim. Patrons of all ages eagerly took their seats and grew silent as the silver projector began to sputter to life. The film shook on the screen, and Steve was so close to the projector he could hear the rattling of the canister in its place. The words "EYE ON THE WORLD" appeared above a turning globe. The news reel's narrator began to speak over news footage. 

_"News from abroad! The Nazi aggression in Europe has spread throughout Austria and parts of the Soviet Union. Churchill and the United Kingdom insist that all countries yet unaffected by Nazism will be protected at any cost. Jewish immigrants arrive in Ellis Island in droves, driven from their homeland. While the land of the free welcomes all new found Americans, President Roosevelt remains neutral in foreign affairs."_

Steve stared at the screen, his fingers hovering by the popcorn. "Hey Buck?" Bucky turned casually. "The rest of the world's at war. You think we'll ever get involved?"

"What, you mean America?" Bucky leaned back in his seat. "Dunno... I don't think we can afford it. Hell, we can barely afford to keep most of the population from going hungry." He paused. "Why? Afraid of fighting?"

"I'm not afraid," Steve puffed. "I just..." He returned to the screen, brow furrowed. "You never hear good things about what's going on... All those people... Who knows what they're going through?" 

Bucky pat Steve's shoulder. "Hey... I'd relax if I were you. Nobody's going to war." The news reel ended and Bucky perked up. "Oh! Here we go!" The music swelled and the lights grew even fainter. The screen glowed like the moon itself, and a brown MGM logo came on screen. The lion roared and faded away. 

**Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer Presents**

**"THE WIZARD OF OZ"**

The movie progressed. As they were taken to a small farm in Kansas, Steve frowned in confusion. He leaned over to Bucky and whispered: "I thought this was supposed to be in color?" 

"Just keep watching." 

The story followed the life of a young girl named Dorothy. She was a sweet thing, with pigtails and big, kind eyes. By her first song, Steve was entranced. It still hadn't shown any color, but it didn't seem to matter to Steve. He sat comfortably in his seat, shoveling popcorn and sipping coke. Then, the twister hit. Even within ten minutes, Steve found himself on the edge of his seat. He marveled at the flying house, wondering how in the world they managed to pull such a stunt. The cackle of the Wicked Witch sent shivers down his spine. He watched as the house came down, down, down, until finally -  _whump!_

Steve excitedly grabbed Bucky's arm. "Where is she?! What just happened?!" he whispered sharply. 

"Shh..." Bucky gestured to the screen. "Watch." Steve fixed his eyes on the screen. He watched as Dorothy, slowly rising from her room, walked down the hall and opened her front door. 

Steve's jaw hit the ground.

Color. Pure, bright, beautiful color filled the movie screen. He'd seen color pictures before, but only in small bursts here and there. Silent films with a few painted stills, and the occasional glamour shot. This was beyond anything he'd imagined. As Dorothy stepped out into a beautiful, larger-than-life world, Steve took in every detail as hungrily as he ate his popcorn. It was a gorgeous world, with flowers, blue skies, and a bright road of yellow brick. Staring at all of it in full, Steve swore there were some colors he didn't even know existed. 

_"Toto... I've a feeling we're not in Kansas anymore."_

From that point on, Steve couldn't look away if he tried. The music, the sights, the costumes... It was like watching a dream. If his life depended on it, he probably couldn't describe the movie and do it justice. He watched vehemently for the entire thing. He laughed at the funny parts, and nearly cried at the sad parts. Half way through, he began humming along with the score. But finally, after over an hour of indulgent fantasy, the dream was over, and Dorothy woke up at home, safe and sound. Surrounding her were her friends and family, worried sick. Steve felt a warm sensation in his stomach as she was welcomed back with open arms. 

_"No, Aunt Em! This was a real, truly live place! And I remember that some of it wasn't very nice. But most of it was beautiful! But just the same, all I kept saying to everybody was 'I wanna go home.' And they sent me home...! Doesn't anybody believe me?"_

_"Of course we believe you, Dorothy."_

_"Oh but anyway, Toto, we're home! Home! And this is my room. And you're all here. And I'm not gonna leave here ever, ever again! Because I love you all! And... oh, Auntie Em... There's no place like home!"_

The music crescendoed, and the ending title faded into view. The whole audience applauded, Steve chief among them. When the lights rose, the two made their way out of the theater and towards Bucky's car. Steve, from the minute he stood from his seat, couldn't stop talking. 

"And when they showed the witch's castle!" he gushed, the pair walking outside. "And those flying monkeys... How do you think they keep the wings on them?" 

"I think they're just suits." 

"No, no, couldn't be!" 

Bucky slipped into the driver's seat. "You're right. Couldn't be." Steve got in the passenger's side, eyes still starry from the experience. "Glad you liked it." 

"I loved it!" Steve leaned against the chair, cheeks pink with excitement. "It was better than I could have imagined. Thank you so much for taking me, Bucky!" 

Bucky laughed. "Okay, easy now. Don't need you getting all goofy on me." Still, he didn't seem bothered. "So, you gonna tell me your address or do I have to guess?" 

"Address?" Steve blinked, his mind running slowly on the request. "Oh! It's getting late, huh? All right. I'm not sure quite how to get there from here but..." The drive went on for some time. All the while, Steve raved about the film, going into detail about what he found specifically amazing. Steve wasn't sure if Bucky was humoring him or he truly didn't mind his rambling. In any case, they found themselves outside Steve's complex before too long. Bucky looked around the area, clearly not a fan of what he saw. Steve felt a sudden embarrassment, but tried to ignore it. 

"Well... this is me..." He opened the door, his good mood tarnished. He knew he shouldn't feel so self-conscious about where he lived; Bucky understood his financial situation. But letting him in on that part of Steve's life after seeing him only in the setting of his expensive, two story home was, in some ways, humiliating. "I'll uh... I'll see you tomorrow-" Just as Steve turned to leave the car, Bucky took his wrist. 

"Hey." The two caught eyes. "If you ever need more than what mom's paying you-" 

"This again? Bucky, I'm fine working for what I earn. Your mother pays me too much as it is." 

"Steve I'm serious." Bucky's face was firm. "I know you're happy to earn your keep but... if you..." His eyes lingered on the building outside his car. "If you ever want somewhere different to stay, we have extra rooms." 

Steve's face burned red. "Buck, I couldn't possibly..." 

"It's no trouble." 

"But... what about Seymour?" Bucky's hand slowly left his wrist. "I thought you were worried about him close to me..." 

"Well he's... He hasn't been acting up lately so I was thinking..." 

An awkward silence sat between the boys. Steve didn't know where to look, and so focused on his lap. Bucky's eyes lingered on the steering wheel. Taking a breath, Steve turned to him. "If... if I need a place... I'll let you know." Bucky took a moment before nodding in agreement. Steve opened his door, but didn't leave just then. With his heart pounding in his ears, Steve turned abruptly and threw Bucky into a sudden hug. Bucky's eyes widened, surprised by the gesture. When they broke apart, Steve slipped from the seat, slammed his door shut, and rushed inside and up the stairs to his apartment. 

He bypassed Mrs. Keegan all together and headed straight for his and his mother's room. Sara was asleep, giving Steve his much wanted privacy. Taking out his beloved book, he held it close to his chest. His heart had yet to settle. He could still feel the grip of Bucky's fingers on his wrists. He could still smell Bucky's aftershave from their embrace. Steve had worked a long, hard week, but felt no need to sleep. His mind was anxious, racing with thoughts of Bucky Barnes. 

_"In the end, you're just like me. A faggot."_

The horrible words of Seymour Rodchester intruded on his happy thoughts. Steve shut his eyes tightly and tried to shake the memory. No matter how hard he tried, the doubt remained in his mind. Taking a calming breath, Steve opened his book to a fresh, new page. He took one of his pencils and began to sketch mindlessly. As he did, he began to softly sing beneath his breath. 

_"Somewhere... over the rainbow... way up high..."_

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, if you liked what you read here, let me know! I don't know if I'm going to finish this or not, so tell me if you're interested!


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